Beads and String
by RoYale
Summary: [SaeFuji] He'd never look at his hand while his finger traced the thread, and then the bead, but she could tell he knew what he was doing. The look in his eyes said he was missing someone.


**.a.n.:** Well, I was reading off LiveJournal (btw - could someone give me a crash course on how LJ communities work? i.e. joining, posting, linking? ::blushes:: Gomene for being a pain, I'm just...really bad at this stuff) and this one author...wow her style was beautiful but she tortured Saeki by making Fuji spend all his time with Tezuka. Okay - it wasn't bad (at all), but it made me really want to write some SaeFuji. After all, while TezuFuji will always be one of my favourites, I can't stand seeing Saeki all jealous and riled up like that. Not for a long time, anyway. So the result was this: totally random style of writing, totally random plot. Not even a plot. ::blushes again:: I've been experimenting with styles a lot lately, so thank you every for putting up with it. Please take good care of me!

**.disclaimer.:** Ahh I'm too tired to think of anything remotely deviant from the standard disclaimer. They're not mine.

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**Beads and Strings**

She had walked her child to and from school for ten years. From the time he'd started kindergarten, through his middle school years and past his first day of high school, she'd woken him up every morning to a steaming breakfast, marched him to school, and waved him off to a happy school day. Every afternoon, she'd be waiting at the gate, affectionately handing him a small snack as they'd walk home to silence or childish chatter. But recently, he'd asked her to stop escorting him like a little kid. It was embarrasing, he had said, especially around his friends.

She compromised with him, agreeing that she wouldn't walk him to the gate, but that she'd still watch him enter the school, and be waiting with a quick snack when the final bell rang. "If that's what makes you happy, kaa-san," had been his wearied reply. She smiled, and considered herself lucky. Not many sons would put up with their protective mothers for as long as hers had.

So after that, she watched him carefully from across the street. She watched him interact with his friends, watched him come alive in a way that he rarely was at home. On the edges of her vision, she observed some of the other students as well, studying their clothing, behavior, and personalities. By the time two months had past, her view from across the street had given her a wealth of knowledge about the boys who attended school with her son.

This one is noisy, she noted, and this one is brash. This one's quiet and considerate, while this one's been crushing on the same girl for over three weeks. She unconsciously classified and sorted them, wondering why she hadn't had this sort of insight when she'd needed it most - in her own high school years. Now, it seemed so easy to tell which boys would succeed and which would fail, which had morals and which always lied. But there was one boy she couldn't classify.

This one boy intrigued her, the only one whose story she hadn't been able to read. His appearance alone was more than unique: white hair with a background of black, his eyes - from what she'd seen -a deep shade of blue. He held himself high, aided by muscles that were surely created through the tennis bag he always carried with him. His stride was sure, and his smile steady. But what she found most interesting about him were his hands.

The boy was more often than not seen with the same group of students: young men like himself, dressed in Rokkaku uniforms carrying heavy tennis bags. To them, he was a charismatic leader, a source of direction and entertainment. He'd joke, tease, and make them laugh, but there were plenty of moments when she'd seen him pat a friend on the back and whisper some comforting words to soothe the other. He was their pillar, their keystone, their clinch pin. And he was breaking apart.

There were times, she'd noticed, when the attention would be taken off his willing shoulders. In those times, his stride was still sure, and his smile was still steady, but one of his hands would more often than not reach into his pocket. There, they would unobtrusively grip around something, holding it tight. Once or twice, she'd seen some beads threaded on the ends of white string, peeking out from around his digits. He would never look at his hand while his finger traced the thread, and then the bead, but she could tell he knew what he was doing. The look in his eyes said he was missing someone.

One day, there'd been a new boy near the gate. He had been dressed in a black students' uniform, neatly washed, pressed, and starched. In fact, the uniform had been only indication that this new visitor was a male. With his honeyed locks and delicate face, he could've just as easily been of either gender, switching as he pleased. And he, too, had a smile on his face. Leaning casually against the school gates, he glanced up at the clock, and then at the door. He must be waiting for someone.

The white-haired boy left as usual, surrounded by his group of friends. He carefully stored away his shoes, pulling his outdoor counterparts roughly onto his feet. It was the same ritual everyday: pull on the shoes, wait for the friends, pick up the tennis bag, and leave for the courts. Abandoning her inspection ofthe honey-haired stranger, she turned her eyes towards the white-haired boy, per usual. There was just something about him.

Suddenly, the boy's face lit up in a way she'd never seen before. Flinging his tennis bag to the side, he put on a quick burst of speed and rapidly approached the new boy, wrapping his arms around him hungrily. The black-uniformed boy responded in turn, gently patting his taller friend's back. Then, after retrieving the earlier discarded bag, they walked away, laughing and talking as if they'd been deprived for years.

She had quirked an eyebrow and looked down at her hands, belatedly realizing that her son had left the building, and she'd forgotten to greet and give him the small snack she'd prepared. That night, she apologized and explained the disturbance, revealing little by little her observations on the smiling, white-haired boy.

"That's Saeki Kojiroh," her son had commented, obviously interested, "He's the vice captain of the tennis team."

After that, there'd only been one more visit from the honey-haired stranger. The white-haired boy - Saeki, she reminded herself - had greeted him in the same fashion, clearly overjoyed by the visit. She'd started to suspect that there was more below their guise of friends - unrequited feelings, if the white-haired boy's hands were any indication. Examining the stranger again, she smiled sadly to herself. The vice captain was in for a shock - if the new smile, new bracelet, or new bounce was any indication, the stranger had found love in a place that wasn't here.

Her guess proved right when the white-haired boy showed up the next morning, still prompt, but no longer striding surely, or smiling steadily. He answered his friends' questions quietly, opting to stay in the background. And his hand was stuffed deep into his pocket, fingering the beads on the ends of the white string.

He remained like this for over a week, quiet, withdrawn, and lethargic. The only constant movement he showed was that hand, in that pocket, with those beads. She smiled sadly. First love - and first heartbreak - were hard things to deal with. He'd forget and get over it soon enough. They all did.

She was wrong. As the fourth week past, he remained depressed and remote, talking only when necessary and smiling only to reassure his friends. One day, a string snapped and one of the beads fell off, landing in a crack in the sidewalk. That afternoon, she arrived just in time to see him frantic with worry, only pausing to breathe when he'd found the bead and tucked it safely in his pocket. The next morning, the string was new and repaired, and the bead was in its rightful place.

She slowly grew accustomed to seeing the white-haired boy like this, to the point where it was hard to imagine what a confident and charismatic person he'd once been. He'd become a shadow of his former self, and the world just accepted him for it. But then, he came back.

She watched the honey-haired stranger walk down the street and lean against the school gates once more, staring intently at the clock. His hair was messy and in much need of a cut and his smile was pained and broken, but she noted that his uniform was just as clean and crisp as always. It didn't suprise her that the white-haired boy greeted him in the same way he always had: desperately and passionately. What suprised her was that the stranger pushed his exuberant friend away.

Holding the vice captain at arm's length, the stranger smiled weakly, and managed a few words. With those words, a floodgate opened, and words poured out and out, until the stranger's face was lined and exhausted, and his smile had long since been blown away.Whispering three last words, he bowed low and offered the white-haired boy one last smile. Then, he turned to leave.

But he wasn't quick enough. The white-haired boy stood in shock, but recovered fast enough to catch the stranger's wrist. He said something quietly, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a white string bracelet, tipped with beads. Holding the other's hand gently, he slipped the bracelet and tightened it until it hung at just the right size around the stranger's newly bare wrist. He murmured something again, putting a hopeful look on his face.

She smiled as he stared at the armful of honey suddenly pressed against him, and was tempted to laugh a little when realization hit and blatant joy spread across his face. Averting her eyes tactfully as he lifted the stranger's chin and gently descended to capture his lips, she allowed herself a single giggle.

She had an interesting story to tell her son tonight.

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**.a.n.:** Ehh...I tried and I tried, but I couldn't find the perfect wording for that last sentence. Did that woman seem stalker-ish? Hehe...didn't mean for her to be. I just wanted it from a slightly different point of view. Hope the not referring to characters by their names (much) wasn't confusing- oh and the whole hair thing ::blushes:: I tend to distinguish people a lot by their hair. Not quite sure why though. As for what happened between Fuji and whoever his former love was, and what Fuji and Saeki were talking about, well, that's up to your imagination. If the mood strikes, I might write this again, from Fuji or Saeki's POV. I've never done first person yet... 

...anyway, thank you for reading, and until next time!


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